A New Torture
by santeria
Summary: Humorous threeshot. The Company makes breakfast and learns that not all torments are inflicted by Orcs, robbers learn that it is a bad idea to attack the Fellowship, and Faramir learns that soup can be dangerous.
1. I

**A/N: **The song Aragorn sings is from Book III of _The Two Towers_. Also, this is my first real attempt at humor (usually I do dark, depressing stories) so let me know what you think!

**A New Torture**

The Company awoke slowly. Legolas had been keeping watch, and when Mithrandir awoke the Elf swiftly disappeared into the woods while the Wizard lit his pipe. Aragorn got to work starting a campfire, Gimli unloaded cookware, and Merry and Pippin yawned and stretched while waiting for breakfast to cook.

It was a beautiful morning, the likes of which the group rarely saw these days. The grass was soft and green, the mountains were bright and blue, and the rising sun painted the sky hues of pink and orange that contrasted pleasingly with the black clouds hovering over Mordor. This, combined with the fact that they were only a day's journey from Gondor, put Aragorn in remarkably good spirits. Even the thought of impending doom did nothing to dampen his mood; in fact, if he was to march to his death, today seemed like a perfectly lovely day to do it.

"Nothing like a good breakfast to start the day off," said the Ranger happily as he laid strips of rabbit meat into the pan and set it over the fire.

"Mmph," agreed Merry sleepily.

As the rabbit started to sizzle, Aragorn burst into merry song.

_Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!  
West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree  
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.  
O proud walls! White towers! O winged crown and throne of gold!  
O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,  
Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea? _

The rest of the Company stared at the Ranger. Aragorn, for all his kingliness, possessed no ability to stay on key, so the song itself seemed rather tuneless. The Dúnadain's voice rose to a shrill pitch that could have shattered _mithril_, and Gimli winced and fingered his axe. On the other side of the camp, Gandalf ripped two strips of cloth from someone's unfortunate shirt and nimbly fashioned them into earplugs. Aragorn was now adding verses to the song, and as he was not as talented at songwriting as Bilbo or Frodo were, his verses seemed to consist mostly of nonsensical neologisms. Pippin, finding himself unable to bear the horror any longer, fled into the trees. The rabbit meat in the pan started to smoke.

Meanwhile, Legolas was wandering through the woods, gathering berries and listening to the whispers of the trees. None of these trees had ever seen an Elf before and were very pleased that he was treading through their forest. They murmured to each other of the Elf's beauty and grace; it was very good for Legolas' ego, and more than once the Elf blushed at the trees' compliments. Suddenly the pleasant whispers were overlaid with a truly awful wailing that sounded like a cross between a Nazgûl screech and a cat being trodden on. The sound was emanating from the direction of the camp and the Elf paused and grabbed an arrow, unsure of whether to go back to the camp to see if the others were being attacked by fell beasts. This certainly did not sound like any fell beast he had ever encountered...

The pattering of hobbit feet distracted him, and a mere second later Pippin flew from the trees and almost crashed into the Elf.

"Peregrine!" cried Legolas. "Are you hurt? What is that horrible screeching at the camp?"

"Aragorn is singing," said Pippin ruefully. The Elf nodded knowledgably.

"Ah. I am sorry."

There was a pause then Legolas tilted his head, his nose twitching. "Is something burning?"

The Elf and the hobbit arrived back at the camp just as Aragorn finished his song with a drawn-out "_Gondooooooooooor!_" The rabbit was fully charred by now, Gimli seemed to be staring longingly in the direction of Mordor, and tears of despair were falling freely from Merry's eyes. Aragorn noted the hobbit's tears and beamed at Merry. "I am glad you were so moved by singing."

The poor Halfling wiped at his eyes. "Yes. It was very moving, after a fashion."

Mithrandir dug out his earplugs and glared at the Company. "Now that the caterwauling is finished, it is time for breakfast." He looked down the char-filled pan and frowned. Aragorn looked wounded.

"Arwen says my singing is wonderful."

Legolas scoffed. "Truly. As are your cooking skills."

The Ranger stared at the pan. "It is not so bad. We can simply scrape off the burnt bits."

"There would be nothing left to eat," countered Gandalf. Merry's stomach rumbled. Aragorn sulked.

"Everyone is against me. You, Sauron..."

"Do not forget Saruman," added Pippin.

"Thank you. My heart is greatly lightened by your help."

In spite of the torment the Ranger had just inflicted on the Company Gimli felt a spark of pity for him. "Now, laddie, it is not all bad. We are almost to the White City!" The group gazed contemplatively over the plain at the distantly gleaming walls of Gondor, then looked forlornly back at their inedible breakfast.

The silence was broken by Legolas. "I have some berries and _lembas_" he offered hopefully, holding out a handful of the plump crimson fruits. The hobbits brightened considerably, the Man and the Dwarf grumbled but accepted that rabbit would not be on the menu anytime soon, and Gandalf poured the charred meat onto the firewood and stowed the pan.

It was going to be a very long day.

xxxxxxxxxx

Miles away, an Orc scout was standing rooted to the spot, a look of terror splashed across his face. There was a rustling of leaves and heavy footsteps and another Orc appeared. He stopped and stared at his frozen companion.

"Kirbag? What is it? Do you smell Men?" His eyes flashed greedily at the thought of feasting on some nice Gondorian Men for breakfast.

Kirbag shook his head and, looking sorrowful, turned to the other Orc. "No, Gik, I heard something quite unlike anything I have heard before. I do not know what it was, but it was awful." He shuddered.

"Oh," said Gik helpfully. "Well, it is gone now and we must not keep Vikor waiting. It is time to leave."

The scout left with Gik to go back to their camp. Later that day the group came upon the campsite left by the Company, and Kirbag was despondent to learn that the ghastly shrieking he had heard had come from this very camp.

Kirbag managed to survive the War of the Rings, but, more than anything else, it was Aragorn's singing that haunted him for the rest of the days.

**The End**


	2. II

**A/N: **I don't know why, but _Lord of the Rings_ seems to inspire humorous stories in me. So here is another chapter featuring the Fellowship on their journey to Mordor.

**A New Torture**

**II**

Fared peered through shrubs and trees and the group he and his fellows had come upon not ten minutes ago. The group consisted of six people, and although Fared only had four companions he felt sure that they could easily attack and plunder the traveling party. He was sure of this partially because he was not what one would call _cunning_ and partially because the only one who looked like he would be any trouble was the tall dark-haired man who looked as if he had bathed in mud.

Apart from the filthy man, the group seemed to Fared to include: a hefty, hairy midget; a thin, blonde, immaculately clean young man; two curly-headed children; and a tall but somewhat bent old man with a long, white beard and a walking stick. Neither Fared nor any of his companions had suffered book-learning, so they had no knowledge of Elves, Dwarves, hobbits, or even of the story of the heir of Isildur. Fared, in fact, specialized in relieving people of excess goods. In other words, he and his fellows were robbers.

Fared silently gestured for his companions over to him.

"I will take the tall dark-haired one," he murmured to them as he drew out his knife. Predriwin scrutinized the group then whispered, "I will take the blonde one." Norid and Adohalin agreed to take the midget and the old man, respectively, while Galelac said that he could tie up both children. "They're small. They won't be much trouble," he reasoned. With the plan now solidly in place, the robbers readied their weapons and made their move.

They were had not quite surrounded their prey when the blonde one looked up sharply, looking surprised but not alarmed. "Strider, we have company." The filthy man scanned the surrounding forest and a look of disappointment crossed his face. "They are only Men," he said.

A tendril of irritation bloomed in Fared's heart and he leapt forward, brandishing his knife. "Halt! Empty your pockets! Give us your packs!" His voice was harsh and demanding, and had he been attacking any other group they would have quailed in fear and done as he bade them. As it was the group just looked blankly at him; the only ones who looked even slightly afraid were the two children.

Predriwin was the fastest of the group, and he had already flown toward his target and was bearing his knife. He pointed it at the blonde one, noticing for the first time that the flaxen-haired being had pointed ears. Predriwin brushed the observation aside and aimed his knife at the blonde, who looked faintly bored. "Give me your pack," he growled.

The blonde sighed and arched an eyebrow. "Is this really necessary? The most valuable thing I have with me that would be of use to you is my cloak."

Predriwin blinked, taken aback. "Er...yes. Do it!" The pointy-eared man calmly removed his pack and, muttering about "waste of time" and "saving arrows for Orcs", handed it to Predriwin.

"What of the arrows and bow on your back?"

The blonde gave his attacker a look of such icy disdain that Predriwin felt a small part of his heart shrivel and die. "You shall not touch my bow."

Predriwin decided it best not to argue.

Meanwhile, Norid had cornered the midget and was also waving his knife around. Norid was relatively new to the robbery business and was not very good with a knife, but waving it around usually looked somewhat impressive and got the job done. The midget, however, merely seemed amused. "You should be more careful with that, laddie, or you'll end up cutting off your own nose." Norid paused in his knife-waving and struggled to come up with a response. Embarrassed and angered by the midget's surprising advice, he finally retorted with a childishly sarcastic "Then how _do_ you brandish a knife, O Wise One?" This, as he soon found out, was not the best response he could have given.

Galelac found that had sorely underestimated the children. Upon first cornering them he noted that they had pointy ears and disturbingly hairy feet. Ignoring this, he grabbed one by the arm and poked his pack with a dagger. The child, however, only stared at him in interest.

"You're a Big Person!" he observed, then turned to the other child. "Look, Pip, he's almost as tall as Strider!"

Pip said, "But Strider has better hair. This one looks like he is wearing a bush on his head."

Galelac glared. "I do not!"

"Yes, you do."

"Do not!"

"Do!"

Several feet away, Adohalin had waylaid the old man, who, it turned out, was rather adamant about not giving up his staff. The old man looked innocently at his attacker and said wearily, "You would not deprive an old man of his walking stick, would you?" Adohalin hesitated. The stick could be used as a weapon, but the old man seemed too frail to fight anyone with it.

Adohalin relented. "No, you may keep it." The old man grinned, and Adohalin caught a glint of triumph in the old man's eyes before he realized he had made a mistake.

Fared was oblivious to the minimal success of his fellows, for he was having enough trouble getting the filthy man to cooperate. The man had not even had the courtesy to cower; he had simply sat cross-legged on the ground and yawned. "Your friends will not take long, will they? We really need to get somewhere."

Fared paused, unsure of how to proceed. Victims were not usually so unconcerned, and it angered him that the filthy man seemed so relaxed about the whole situation. "They will take as long as they want. You are not leaving until we say so!"

The filthy man peered up at him and his expression turned grave. Just when Fared thought that he was finally gaining control of the situation the man said, in a threatening tone, "If you do not leave us, I will sing."

"_Elbereth!_ Do not do it, Strider!" A cry came Fared's right, and he turned to see the fair-haired man looking at the filthy man (_Strider_, he corrected) in horror. "No one deserves to be subject to such torture," the blonde added after a moment. Predriwin, who was holding a bundle of something wrapped in leaves, seemed to be steadfastly ignoring his target. Strider looked up at Fared and said solemnly, "They say my singing is terrible, but I do not think it is not so bad. My fiancée even says that it is something to behold."

"Do not let him sing," said the blonde one to Fared.

"What is this?" asked Predriwin, who had unwrapped the leaf-covered bundle to reveal some sort of unfamiliar bread.

"It is waybread, called _lembas_."

Predriwin was suddenly aware that he had not eaten in four hours. Waybread sounded quite good at the moment, so without thought he took three very large bites. The blonde looked regretfully at him. "You should not have done that."

Galelac had finally conceded that his hair did resemble a giant bush. Pip was grinning victoriously when the child called Merry asked, "Why do Men not have hairy feet?"

"Why should we have hairy feet?"

"Hobbits do. It keeps our feet warm."

This new information gave Galelac pause. He did not know what a hobbit was, but he knew that his charges had hairy feet and now knew hobbits had hairy feet; therefore, the two children must be hobbits. He turned to Norid and said "Do you know what a hobbit is?"

"Galalac, I am busy right now." Norid was indeed busy backing slowly away from the hairy midget, who had produced an axe from his belt and was demonstrating the proper way to brandish it.

A bright light exploded from the middle of the group, followed by a shrill, feminine scream. The light faded to reveal Adohalin clutching his hands to his face. "I am blind! The old man has blinded me with his staff!" The old man looked annoyed. "Stop that. You are fine."

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!" wailed Adohalin.

"What are you _doing_?" Fared barked at his companion. "Get back to your job!" He shoved Adohalin in the direction of the old man and stalked back to Strider. The filthy man was still seated on the ground, but he had been joined by the blonde, pointy-eared one. They were both watching Predriwin with mild interest as he rolled around on the ground and clutched at his abdomen. "My stomach! It will explode, I am sure of it!"

"I was not aware that eating too much _lembas_ would affect a Man in such a way. The hobbits had four pieces and were not nearly as sick," observed the blonde one. Strider looked thoughtful, then shrugged.

"They are hobbits. They eat more than Men do."

The hobbits in question were, at the moment, trying on Galelac's shoes. Merry was wearing the left one while Pip sported the right one. Galelac was willing his feet to grow hair. He was not being very successful. Norid had backed away from the axe-swinging midget and, finding himself in the midst of two prancing hobbits, gave up his mission as lost.

"I am finished. I do not want anything from these travelers."

Galelac looked up. "Come and grow foot hair with me. You will not have to wear shoes anymore."

Norid looked impassively at his friend. "No, I do not think I will. I rather like my shoes."

Galelac shrugged. "So be it," he said, and went back to concentrating on his feet. Norid left him and went over to Fared.

"I do not think we will get anything from this group," he said before he noticed Predriwin writhing about on the ground. "What is he doing? This is no time for dust baths."

Fared said, "You are all idiots."

The hairy midget appeared, and he too stood and observed Predriwin. The half-wrapped waybread was lying on the ground beside the ill thief, and the midget picked up the bread and sat next to his two companions as they waited patiently for the robbers to leave. Norid stepped behind Fared and prepared to use his leader as a shield in case the midget brought out his axe again. Fared ignored this.

"Where is Adohalin?" Everyone save Predriwin looked around.

The old man said, "I think he ran into the forest."

Fared groaned. This was undoubtedly the worst robbery that he had ever heard of or participated in. It made him very ashamed. "Galelac, get your shoes on. We must go find Adohalin. Norid, get Predriwin up."

Norid hauled Predriwin to his feet while Galelac, looking fairly reluctant, took his shoes from Merry and Pip.

As the thieves made their way through the trees they could hear the group of travelers speaking.

"I cannot believe he ate my waybread. It is ruined," the pointy-eared one lamented.

"Worry not, Legolas. We can always hunt," replied Strider.

There were gruff snorts from the midget and the old man. "Valar help us," said the midget, "if you try to cook again."

The travelers' voices faded as the robbers trudged deeper into the forest. Adohalin, his sight perfectly intact, was found clinging to a tree branch, and it took a good two hours to coax him down. Fared sent a prayer to the gods asking to never see Strider or any of his group again, then the robbers started journeying north, since it was the opposite direction that Strider's group was going.

Galelac said, "I think I want to give up thieving and become a hobbit."

Fared cursed at the sky.

**The End**


	3. III

**A/N: **This story is different from the others, as it is not about the Fellowship but about Éowyn and Faramir. Poor, poor Faramir. He's one of my favorites.

**A New Torture**

**III**

Éowyn fumed silently as she watched Faramir walk away. They had been married for a year now, and Éowyn had been looking forward to a romantic anniversary with her husband. However, it was not to be; Faramir had been called to attend a council in place of King Elessar instead. What was most infuriating was that, as of late, Faramir had been so busy that she had hardly any time with him.

Well, this time he was not going to get away with it. No one angered Éowyn and got away with it. _No one_. Not even a certain Witch-King (Éowyn was still rather proud that she had managed to slay a Witch-King, and was privately very pleased that she'd had the presence of mind to come up with the retort "I am no man!" while faced with almost-certain death). The question was, how to make her beloved husband pay? Éowyn brushed her flaxen hair out of her face and pondered for an hour or so before the answer came to her. A wicked smile spread across her fair face and her sky-blue eyes glinted. Oh, yes, that would do perfectly...

In the council room, a sudden feeling of foreboding washed over Faramir. Something was not right. He fidgeted in his chair while the Haradrim delegate droned on. Really, how much was there to say about horse trading? Gondor's horses were, after all, nowhere near as splendid as those of Rohan. Eril, another Gondorian delegate, glanced at Faramir.

"Are you alright?" He murmured softly out of the corner of his mouth. Faramir shrugged.

"I just feel...odd. As if something bad is about to happen."

Eril nodded wisely. "I always feel that way after eating beans. Did you eat beans this morning?"

"...No."

"Huh."

Faramir said nothing, although he did subtly scoot his chair away from the other delegate.

The ominous feeling stayed with him all day.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Good morning, darling!" Éowyn swooped over to her still half-asleep husband and laid a kiss upon his forehead. He had stumbled in late last night after an entire day of listening to Haradrim trade negotiations, and had, to his wife's chagrin, promptly passed out on the bed without so much as a "hi". The good news, which Éowyn had just found out a couple minutes ago from a messenger from the King, was that Faramir had been granted the day off.

Faramir grunted. Éowyn's eye twitched. Outside, a bird sang merrily, and after a moment of sweet song Éowyn marched to the window and slammed the shutters closed. Faramir sleepily grunted again; the ominous feeling was back. He slowly opened one eye and peered warily about the room. There were his shoes strewn on the floor, there was his brown cloak thrown hastily over a chair, there was Éowyn smiling sweetly at him from across the room...wait, that couldn't be right. She'd been mad at him yesterday, therefore she had no reason to be smiling at him today. Mayhap his vision had just been blurred by sleep so that it had looked like she was smiling when she was really glowering at him and planning to stab him while he slept. Mayhap his wife had been replaced by a shape-shifting fiend that was attempting to lull him into a false sense of security by acting cute and demure. The possibilities were endless.

He opened both eyes and squinted. No, she was still smiling. How peculiar. It gave him a feeling that he supposed would be similar to how he would feel if Gimli donned a swan-shaped doily as a hat and started proclaiming a love for Oliphaunts while trying to dance like a drunken Elf.

"Good morning!" she repeated. Faramir sat up and stared.

"Good morning," he said carefully. Éowyn's smile grew (he suppressed an urge to get on his knees and apologize madly for every mistake he had ever made), then she scooped his cloak into her arms and said, "You've been given a day off. I was thinking we could spend the day together!"

Faramir swallowed. By the stars, she was _looking_ at him so hopefully, her eyes huge and innocent, and he knew he was trapped. "Yes. I am looking forward to it." Silently he prayed for Orcs to magically materialize in their bedroom, for Elessar to fall suddenly and gravely ill, for fiery hairballs to start raining from the sky. Something, anything, to save him from his wife's wrath. Faramir had faced a great many terrible things in his life, but none had prepared him for the fury of a shield-maiden of Rohan.

But no Orcs appeared, no urgent message arrived from Elessar, and the sky remained a perfect blue that was the exact color of Éowyn's eyes. In fact, nothing went amiss all morning. It was all very disconcerting.

They spent the day riding around the countryside, admiring the Elves' work in Ithilien and the blooming spring flowers. Éowyn was nothing but caring and charming all day, and by the time evening rolled around Faramir was sure that he had simply been acting paranoid. He had nothing to fear from his wife. Really. As dusk started to fall they rode back home, and as soon as they got indoors Faramir proclaimed himself immensely hungry. Being paranoid for half the day was hard work. He sat at their plain wooden table and was anticipating the servants' arrival with dinner when he noticed that Éowyn had not seated herself. There were no servants around either. In fact, the dining room was entirely empty of everyone save him and Éowyn, who was looking very pleased. The foreboding feeling came back full force.

Éowyn, looking fit to burst, said "I'll be right back" and swept out of the room. Faramir stared after her, and his palms started to sweat. Oh, Valar. Maybe he should jump out the window while he still could? He was contemplating how seriously the fall would maim him when Éowyn reappeared. She was carrying a plain black pot in her hands, and the liquid inside was steaming lazily and smelled faintly like what he imagined to be pig sick. Faramir paled. Éowyn beamed.

"I made dinner for you!" She set the pot in front of him, produced a wooden bowl and a spoon from her pocket, and proceeded to ladle out a generous portion of the soup.

"You...cooked?" Faramir eyed the soup. Éowyn had _never_ cooked for him before. During the war he had heard a rumor that she had attempted to cook, and that her food had succeeded in causing several cases of stomach illness. The soup in front of him affirmed the second half of that rumor. Faramir clenched his spoon. There had to be some way out of this. He noticed that she had brought no bowl for herself.

"Aren't you going to eat as well?"

"Oh, I'll eat after you do. I want to see you enjoy your soup!"

Faramir saw a window of opportunity and leapt upon it. "You should have some too. Here, I'll go get a bowl for you." He made to stand but before his legs could even straighten completely he found himself with an armful of Éowyn. She steered him back into his chair and pouted sweetly.

"I insist, dearest. I wanted to make something special for you for our anniversary."

Oh. Their anniversary. No wonder she was so peeved. Slowly, and with a feeling of great doom, he picked up his spoon and dipped it into the soup, which let out a strange gurgling sound. He took a deep breath and, sending Éowyn a rather pained-looking smile, lifted the dripping spoon to his mouth.

Éowyn watched him swallow; his eyes watered slightly and his hand clenched hard around the spoon. "How is it?"

"It is..." he paused, searching for a word that would describe the soup and not offend his wife further. It was very difficult. "Hot," he decided. Yes, that adjective was innocuous enough. "It is hot. I think I will have to wait for it to cool down." He set down his spoon and, under the table, clenched his hands into fists. Éowyn looked disappointed.

"Hot," she repeated flatly. He nodded and kept his mouth firmly shut in an effort to keep from being sick. Valar, the horrid taste was _still_ lingering in his mouth.

"I see." Éowyn's eye twitched for the second time that day, and she rose smoothly. "I am not very hungry myself. I think I will get ready for bed." She glided out of the room and Faramir let out a breath he had not been aware he was holding. Relief took hold of him, and he pushed his bowl of demon-soup away and rested his forehead on the tabletop.

That night, Faramir made a very solemn vow: he was never, _ever_ going to forget his and Éowyn's anniversary again.

It was a vow that he never broke.

**The End**


End file.
